


Hallelujah, Lock & Load

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Car Chases, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Trans Male Character, ian fleming can suck my dick, we're like two martinis away from going full Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: Seiya Koh, long-suffering secret agent, has a target: Michiru Kaioh, noted philanthropist, artist, virtuoso violinist, and heiress to the Kaioh narcotics empire.The only problem is, his assigned partner is also his ex, Kaioh has intel she was never supposed to have her hands on in the first plance, and they both might be a little in love with her.





	Hallelujah, Lock & Load

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tobiaspaceship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobiaspaceship/gifts).



> A birthday gift for my dear friend Rocket J. Onthemoon, feat. the niche OT3 content we DESERVE.  
>  Featuring [art](http://aparticularlygoodfinder.tumblr.com/post/178367939073/happy-birthday-rocketonthemoon-i-made-some) by aparticularlygoodfinder on tumblr

The room looks  _ expensive _ , which is to say that it looks like somebody spent an obscene of money making it look like absolutely  _ nothing _ , a curated void of white on white on white, as barren as the surface of the moon. The woman sitting across from him has a plum-coloured suit wrapped around her like a chokehold, a fresh bruise against the tasteful silvery  _ nothing _ behind her, and Seiya finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from it, the one point in the room it doesn’t hurt to look at.

“Are you sitting comfortably?” she murmurs. “Then we’ll begin.”

“I didn’t say ‘yes’, P. What if I’m not ready?” he drawls back.

She regards him archly over the edge of a manila folder, a louche, blue-black sprawl in his chair, head tipped back and legs akimbo. “I have the utmost confidence in your ability to soldier on anyway, 006. This,” she says, sliding the folder across the table, “is your target.”

Her fingernails are purple too, a glossy raisin colour like blood on concrete. 

“Michiru Kaioh,” she continues, “noted philanthropist, artist, virtuoso violinist, and heiress to the Kaioh narcotics empire. There’s evidence as well which implicates them in diamond smuggling. Nominally, of course, they’re pharmaceuticals company.”

“Narcotics  _ and _ diamonds? How glamorous.”

Gl _ am _ oro _ us _ . You could still hear it, sometimes, the way he tries just a little too hard to pronounce things, a vague “not-from-around-these parts” burr in the back of his throat on the vowels, which is to say, a liability, which is to say that Seiya’s hand twitches, and he wrestles the urge to rub self-consciously at his neck into a long, carefully disaffected sweep of the hand, and flicks the folder open. Sheet music, event badge, the usual suite of fake Ids. A photograph.

The woman in the photo looks  _ expensive, _ which is to say that it she looks rich, something about the way she carries herself, how her plush lips tuck in at the corners with a vague, cool disdain, and it looks like somebody spent an obscene amount of money coaxing her hair to that shade of teal, a rippling blue-green spill that almost manages to look completely natural. Her skin is a smooth, rich brown. Beautiful, like rich women are, but also--

“Concentrate, please, 006. What concerns us is that Miss Kaioh appears to have come into possession of...certain documents. We had, for some time, intended to feed the Kaiohs selected intel a as part of a larger operation, but there seem to have been...complications. We’d very much like them exchanged for something...of a less compromising nature to this organization,” she gestures meaningfully at the sheet music before continuing, “Fortunately, it seems that Miss Kaoih’s accompanyist for her performance at their charity gala tomorrow evening has been called away on an urgent family matter. You, alongside 009, will--”

“Why are  _ they _ coming?” His jaw clenches, spine snapping into a taut line, suddenly upright and rigid in his chair.

“It is the opinion of the Silver Millenium that this is a two-man job.”

“I don’t work for the Silver Millenium,” he mutters sourly.

“Oh? Last I heard from K, our lease on you hadn’t expired yet.” Her eyes are flat and hard and they go on and on forever. “And it is the opinion of the Silver Millenium that this is a two-man job.”

“Pluto.”

She ignores him, already turning away towards the door.

“ _ Setsuna. _ ”

“Do you know we have a form letter prepared in case we break you before K wants you back?” she says over her shoulder, and he can just, just for a minute, see the person she used to be, highest kill count in the agency, and even more people just  _ disappeared _ , erased off the face of linear chronology like they never even existed, pistol suddenly very conspicuous under her suit, “Let’s not make things personal. It is the opinion of the Silver Mi--”

“Alright,  _ fine. _ What I don’t understand is, what role, exactly, does Agent 009 play in this?”

“Piano.” she says, hand on the doorknob.

“ _ Excuse me?” _

“Two accompanists; one piano, one guitar.” She straightens her cuffs “I suggest you go get changed,  _ Seiya. _ Agent 009 will meet you with the car.”

Of fucking course.

* * *

 

The problem with 009 is that the sharp cut of their white suit jacket lends them an almost-perfect androgyny, six feet of leg in painted-on cigarette pants the colour of a faceful of asphalt, poured into a driver’s seat that somehow makes them look taller, and the  _ other _ problem with 009 is that the angle of their jaw has an intermittent iridescence, stripes of neon sliding over their face  through the car window, and the  _ other _ other problem with 009 is that they have no  _ fucking _ business looking that good after what happened in Beirut.

And the last problem is that their white-jacket-black-trousers ensemble is an exact mirror of his own crisp white slacks and oil slick blazer.

“They planned this.”

“Of  _ course _ they did,” 009 drawls witheringly, “I don’t like you enough to match on purpose, and  _ you _ don’t have the taste to have pulled it off yourself. Now get your  _ feet” _ , they hiss, punctuated by a vicious, hair-pin left, “off my  _ fucking  _ dashboard, please.”

The sudden turn throws him into the window, but doesn’t quite manage to dislodge his feet, so Seiya leaves them, crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, dossier open on his knees. 

“What do you think are the odds she goes to the same place 004 does? Like, is there just a specialist salon that does blue hair for people with guns and fake ids?”

There’s not, of  _ course _ there’s not, the idea is fucking ludicrous, but it’s too much like they used to be, back before Beirut when they didn’t fucking hate each other, just too easy to fall back into the back-and-forth of two people, driving at night and just...talking, like you do in the middle of the night, with somebody whose neon-kingfisher-ramune-soda-two-for-one-special blue throat you know the taste of. 009 flicks him a baffled glance, neck fading from blue to yellow to white as the car rolls along.

“Why would Kaioh use a fake--can you  _ fucking _ focus, please?” they snap, shaking their head.

“I’m just saying.” He rolls his cheek into the cool glass window, back and forth and then back down towards the dossier, frowning. “Why  _ didn’t _ they send 004? I mean, no offense, but I’ve never heard you play a  _ kazoo _ , let alone  _ piano. _ ”

“They did.” 009 says. 

“What you do mean,  _ they did _ ?” 009 doesn’t answer. “Nine, what you  _ mean _ , what, do you have her in the  _ trunk?” _

“They did send 004. To make contact with Kaioh. Before.” 009 stares straight ahead, foot heavy on the gas.

Seiya watches his own face turn blue, then pink, in the rearview a mirror, watches his own not-from-around-these parts eyes widen with shock.

“Mizuno got made?” he breathes, “How did-- _ Jesus _ . Guess it explains why we’re swapping out coded  _ sheet music,  _ of all the fucking--” Behind his wide, startled eyes, there’s another shape, a black hunch of shape that looks very much like a car, with two bright spots that look very much like headlights, which look  _ very _ much like they’re getting  _ much _ too close. “Hey. Nine. Please tell me you see that.”

“I’m aware.” they grit out.

“ _ Haruka. _ ” he says

“I’m  _ aware. _ ” they snarl, knuckles squeezed to the same shade as their jacket, then, “Keep them back til I hit the next light.”

“You sure?” he says dubiously.

Haruka nods, smirking sharp and feral, and it’s almost exactly like it used to be as Seiya switches off the safety and cranes out the window, gun in hand, and Haruka says “Don’t get your ponytail caught under the wheel.”

“It’s not  _ that _ long!”

The wind rips at his hair, streaming out behind him while he punches holes in the other car’s windshield, a one-two bark punctuating Haruka’s muttered coaxing, easing the engine faster and faster.

“Back inside!” they snap. Seiya ducks; the shimmer of his suit throws back a traffic-light gold and something twists agonizingly inside his shoulder as he throws himself back towards the driver’s side. Haruka growls under their breath, and the engine growls back before the whole, hulking metal animal of it  _ roars _ forward, slamming him back against his seat, inertia wrenching him around like a ragdoll, but Haruka rolls into it like it’s nothing, throwing the wheel hard to right. Someone’s old couch, left out in the alley, whizzes through his sightline, inches away from the open window, and they say, “Hold your breath.”

Theoretically, and he knows this because Haruka told him, once, in Monaco, fresh off a simple dead-drop pickup and rosy with nostalgia, a Formula One racer taking a corner can experience something like 5gs, mostly lateral, across the spine and core, and at 3gs, you stop being able to breathe normally, because if you do, all the blood rushes out of your head and into your feet and whoops, there goes consciousness.

Theoretically, he knows that.

But there’s knowing, and then there’s  _ this _ , which is to say that a fist wraps around him, neck to knee, and crushes his ribs towards the outside of the seat, and the edges of everything start to turn soft and grey as Haruka Tenoh, in the red car, number 13 for Ferrari, one of only two true things he knows about them, takes the corner, screaming out of the alley and down four different side streets before he can breathe again.

“Well, he pants, cruising down the coast, all clear, “That was fun.”

Almost like it used to be.

* * *

 

Michiru Kaioh is more beautiful in person, a glossy,  _ rich _ beautiful, like a dessert, or a narcotics empire. Her hair looks somehow both more exhaustively expensive, and less affected. She is both softer around the arms and jaw, and harder around the eyes, glowing with a warm, polished sincerity that doesn’t  _ quite _ make it all the way up her face. You’d never notice, though, not unless you were  _ really _ looking. Seiya does. Never could resist a pretty face.

Neither can Haruka, for all that they’re pretending not to look.

“Thank you  _ so _ much for coming!” Kaioh gushes, squeezing both of their hands in turn. It hurts, a little; her jewelry is  _ sharp _ , rings and bangles and row after row of looped pearls, spilling down her throat and over one hip before her dress dissolves into a long, watery silk train, the hard little lumps of them digging in painfully when she draws them both into a cool embrace. The effect is something like a mermaid in chainmail, trying to drown you. “Really,” she murmurs, “I can’t possibly tell you how grateful I am, I know it’s been so short-notice.”

Michiru Kaioh smells like the ocean. It takes both of them just a little too long to pull away.

“We are not,” Haruka whispers after her retreating back, “going to sleep with the narcotics heiress.”

“No, of course not.” Seiya lies. And then, offhandedly, “Do you think she’s got a gun somewhere under there?”

“No way.”

The thing is, and it’s a shame, is that they sound  _ good _ together. The warm up is  _ fun _ , performance goes off without a hitch, like if wishes were fishes and they had a net and she wasn’t who she was and they weren’t who they were, they’d be doing this all the time, playing to the crowd in their silk and sequins.

But she’s not. And they’re not.

So the performance goes off without a hitch, and they step down off the stage, studiously professional and disaffected and  _ not _ looking at how Michiru Kaioh, heiress to the Kaioh narcotics empire, is flushed and sparkling.

“Please,” she says,pulling in them in again, painfully close, “Won’t you stay and enjoy the party? Really, it’s the least I can do.”

Haruka paints on their best ‘Aw shucks, ma’am, for us?’ blush, all bashfully lowered eyes and nervously-raked hair. “Are you sure? We wouldn’t want to disturb anyone, I mean…”

Seiya jogs them with an elbow, “C’mon, man. Champagne and oysters!  _ Hors d'oeuvres. _ ”

_ Horse divorce _ , like he’s not from around here, but aren’t they sweet, just two good ol’ boys in the band. Michiru laughs through her diamonds.

“Stay,” she says, “please.”

It’s a shame, really, but their gracious hostess has to go mingle, but please, please enjoy yourselves. I’ll call you sometime, I’ll put my agents in touch in with yours, it was such a pleasure, and three rounds of “bug the ambassador” (or drug kingpin; seiya: 2; haruka: 1) later, standing side by side in a beautiful bathroom that costs more money than God, Seiya looks sidelong across the mirror at Haruka and says “We are  _ absolutely _ not sleeping with the narcotics heiress.”

“No, of course not.” Haruka lies.

* * *

 

The problem with breaking into a dressing room is that there’s never  _ really _ a good time, there’s no such thing as a  _ truly _ empty hallway, and the  _ other _ problem with breaking into a dressing room is that the documents you’re trying to steal are never in the right fucking place, people are just always so bizarre and idiosyncratic and then you’re ass-up inside a sofa rummaging around, or something equally stupid, and the  _ other _ other problem with breaking into a dressing room is that sometimes, when you’re elbow-deep in the guts of a cello case, the door opens, and a teal-haired drug heiress points a very small gun in your face and says:

“As you were, gentlemen.”

“I told you she had a fucking gun,” Seiya drawls, sinking slowly to the floor, hands up. 

“That’s  _ barely _ a gun,” they quip back, and Haruka follows him down, legs stretched out alongside his. They pass, and discard, at least seven different plans back and forth via a series of meaningful ankle-nudges, and they’ve nearly settled on one when Michiru Kaioh says:

“No, your friend is right, I’m afraid. I’ve no doubt at all that two  _ highly _ skilled operatives like yourselves should have no problem at all dealing with a little thing like this.” The derringer twists in her hand as she paces over to a vanity mirror. “Which is why,” she says, “I’ve taken the liberty of keeping something more  _ robust _ handy.”

The glass fogs under her breath, revealing a hairline seam that shimmers under her fingertips, then slides aside.

“Why didn’t  _ you _ see that? You spent enough time fixing your hair,” Haruka mutters darkly.

Seiya snorts.

“Now then, gentlemen.” Michiru purrs, settling in her vanity chair with a truly  _ egregiously  _ large pistol leveled at them. She fans a sheaf of papers out across her lap, lips moving silently, tapping the fingers of her other hand lightly against her knee,  _ one one two three one four… _

“Hm.” Her head twists. “Well, these are still  _ mine _ , so which one of  _ you _ has the fakes?” She looks down, just barely, at the papers in her lap, and back up. “Let me see. They told me the driver was blonde,  _ you  _ must be 009. Haruka, right? Very impressive.” Her gaze swivels cooly across to him. “So then  _ you _ must be Seiya. But nobody told me you two were  _ musicians!”  _ she laughs. Michiru smiles, with a warm, polished sincerity, and it doesn't come anywhere  _ near _ her eyes before vanishing. “Jackets off, if you’d be so kind.”

It’s almost like it used to be, and also absolutely nothing like that, shrugging out of his suit jacket and watching Haruka do the same, all that immaculate tailoring collapsing into a monochrome puddle on the floor. It’s not even the first time that an heiress was involved, but none of  _ them _ ever smiled like that, never that cold or that sharp like--

Like something. Michiru Kaoih’s dressing room is blue, and it feels like drowning. It’s almost impossible to breathe, let alone think. She nudges the heap of tuxedo with her foot, and hums again.

“Nothing here, either. I suppose,” she says lightly, pursing her lips, “the shirts are next. Holsters on the coat rack, please.”

Her eyes are black, doll’s eyes, like a shark’s in the low light. Haruka opens their mouth, then closes it around a soft  _ click _ of nothing to say. 

They never were any good at putting on a show, stripping brusquely with their eyes cast down. Seiya casts his towards the discarded blazers. They nod, imperceptibly. 

It’s just all so  _ familiar _ , Haruka’s long, pale limbs an attenuated reflection of his own. The way that they tremble, faintly, all the time, with some kind of barely restrained momentum. The taut, furiously pleading way they look at him. Like they could drill some kind of understanding, some perfect clarity of thought straight through his skull if they just  _ tried _ hard enough. And somewhere between the line of their shoulders and Michiru’s enormous, glittering eyes, a fist wraps around his chest, and squeezes his heart up into his throat, and Seiya Koh thinks he must be a little bit in love. So he takes too long to comb his ponytail over one shoulder, and takes even longer to undo the pearly buttons of his shirt one by one, and all he says, is:

“Did you really wear a Calvin Klein sports bra to a black tie gala?”

And Michiru laughs and laughs and laughs, a low, husky noise that doesn’t seem like it should be coming from her.

“Oh,” she sighs, “This is nice.” Her dress unspools in a long blue comma behind her as she paces forward, barely, just barely, scraping the barrel of her pistol, just the edge, down the line of his sternum. Over the the curve of Haruka’s hip. “I’m sorry. I’m teasing, I know, and,” she sighs, wistful and sad with the oceanic spill of her hair gathered at the nape of her neck, stepping delicately over the clothes puddled on the floor, “and they were in the lapels. But this was  _ fun _ , really. I’ve had  _ such _ a nice time. We should do this again sometime. But I did trigger the alarm about a minute ago, so you’ve got about...45 seconds to get out?”

Seiya looks at Haruka.

Haruka looks at Seiya.

“Tell Mizuno, when you see her, will you tell her that we’ll be at the summer house in a week or two? The pool there is just  _ enormous _ , she’d love it.” Michiru says.

They dive out the window.


End file.
